That Sweet Memory Lingers
by whithertits
Summary: Dean finds a box of Sam's XL condoms, and freaks out. (Sam/Dean, first time.)


Warnings: underage (teenchesters)

oOo

There isn't much in terms of expectations of privacy when it comes to being a Winchester. John's never been one to splurge on expenses, and fitting three men, two of them with teenaged hormones, into one motel room means they all have to be a little more than comfortable with living in each other's pockets.

Dean couldn't care less about it, most of the time; the girls he meet tend to think going to a motel is a sign he's about to murder them more than anything else, and he's never wanted to keep anything on hang more daring than the bottle of Jack Uncle Bobby gave him for his last birthday. Sammy's different; he guards his duffle almost compulsively, hunching over its contents if Dean shows too much interest when Sammy's got it open, and it's a rare day that he opens it at all when John's in the room. John doesn't seem to notice, but if Dean knows their dad, the lack of attention just means he went through Sam's bag when his boys were out of the house.

Sam's always been guarded over his stuff; possessive. Dean learned real quick that fucking in the back seat of the Impala was only worth it if Sam was never going to find out he'd done it. He never wanted another lecture on the sanctity of _family space_again in his life.

"You don't have to hide the magazines you spank it to, you know," Dean says when he catches Sam's eyes lingering on the top row of magazines at the gas station. "Dad doesn't care and I already know you steal mine."

Sam's glare doesn't distract from the pink tint of his ears, and Dean smirks as he hands Sam an extra ten and whistles his way out the door; hopefully Sammy'll put the money to good use.

John leaves on a hunt; Dean hustles pool; Sammy jerks off to his math homework (or so Dean assumes). Life as usual for the Winchester clan.

Dean doesn't give much thought to Sam's sex life; he gave the kid a box of condoms after John gave Sammy The Talk on his thirteenth birthday, which at least is a leg up from when Dean got it. Dean's clean; Sammy's a monk. There's not much to think about.

And then he finds the box of condoms in the bathroom, open.

Dean's got the box in his hand and a gleeful laugh bubbling in his throat when he notices the exact details of the box. _Trojan Magnum XL_ stares back at him, and it feels like the _XL_ is burning a brand of heat into Dean's thumb where it rests over the letters.

_Sammy's god a monster cock!_ his mind squawks at him, and even in his own head, he sounds strangled. Dean forces the blush crawling up from his neck back, the image of Sam with a big, fat, throbbing cock flashing bright and hot across his mind. Which—no. Definitely no. Sammy does not have sex, or get erections, no matter what Dean hears in the dark or over the sound of the shower. End of story.

Reality rears its ugly head a second later, because _really_, the chances of Sam having a cock the size these condoms calls for isn't great. Sure, Sammy's tall, pissy all the time as he complains about growing pains. It's possible, under stress, that Dean would admit that Sammy'd just passed him in height and didn't seem to be slowing down. But Sammy was still a kid, and kids didn't have penises that were eight inches plus. Kids just liked to size up because they thought it made them look cool to show it off to their friends. It wasn't much good for stopping your swimmers if your cock was flapping around in a plastic bag. Dean gave Sam perfectly good condoms, set him up with the brand Dean himself uses. He's not going to let Sam run around playin' macho penis.

Dean blames the fact that he ever believed Sam would play _Show me yours_ on the fact that his blood may have been slightly misdirected when he came to that conclusion.

"_Seriously?_" Sam asks, agog. "Are you actually asking me about my penis size?"

Dean focuses very intently on wiping down the barrel of John's shotgun. "I don't want you running around thinking you're safe if you're not."

Dean hears the soft rustling as Sam puts down his book. He can imagine the look on Sam's face as he stares a hole into Dean's back, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end under the attention. "That wasn't the reaction I expected when I left them out," Sam says, and Dean whips his head around so fast he throws himself off balance.

Dean turns the rest of his body around to face Sam. He blinks, rapid-fire, at the too-calm expression on Sam's face, belying his rapidly bounding knee; it stills as Dean faces his brother. "What were you expecting me to do?" he asks, pacing out the words slowly. His stomach tightens, anxiety curling through him.

Sam shifts, his lithe frame curling in on itself before he straightens his spine. His expression never flickers, though, like calm, deep waters. Almost teasing. "I dunno. I thought maybe you'd try one on." A ripple. "Thought maybe you'd ask to see it."

"Your cock," Dean clarifies, flabbergasted and hot under the collar. "You left out condoms so that I'd ask to see your cock."

Unease flickers on Sam's face, then clears into confidence. "I knew I'd have to make the first move. You wouldn't— you can't admit what you want." A fire lights itself behind Sam's eyes, undeniable in its heat. "What we both want."

Dean feels dizzy, and blinks rapidly. His vision has narrowed, focusing on Sam (his face, hands, the heave of his chest, _fuck_, the bulge in his pants Dean's only just letting himself see) the same way he focuses on a target during training. "That's— crazy. You're joking, right?"

Frustration washes over Sam's face, his nostrils flaring wide as he refuses to back down from Dean's gaze. He stands, slowly, and Dean tips his chair back to maintain eye contact; if Sammy won't back down, Dean certainly won't. Just what it is he's not backing down from slithers away from his thoughts when he tries to pin it down. He just— can't back down. Not from this. Not from Sam.

Sam stalks forward, sure of his ever-growing body in a way Dean can't help but admire; he stops just barely inside the spread of Dean's knees, and leans forward and plants his hands on the table to either side of Dean. He flicks his eyes all over Dean's face, reading him. "It's not a joke." He bends down the bare few inches closer, leaning in for a kiss, and Dean— turns away, eyes wide and shocky, dry as he refuses to blink.

"We can't," Dean says. He pushes himself to his feet, and Sam's arms fall to let him escape. "We can't— no. You're confused, Sammy." He takes a deep breath and shudders. "This wasn't a good prank."

Sam has his arms crossed, a sour expression on his face when Dean turns back— that, at least, is familiar. "It's not a joke. You want me. I want you. Even you can do the math." The last is spit out, bitter, and Dean— well, maybe it stings, but anything is better than dealing with the elephant Sam seems to think is in the room.

"You're saying those condoms actually fit you?" Dean scoffs, gathers himself. "I don't care if you show off the Trojans to your buddies, but girls care more about the fact that you're willing to wear a rubber than the size of your dick."

Sam stares at Dean. "You're giving me sex advice," he says, flatly. "I pitch incest," Dean flinches at the word, "and your response is to tell me that safe sex is the most important thing to—" Sam cuts himself off, and shakes his head. "Never mind. Those are the condoms I use when—" he falters, blushes, and despite himself Dean is overcome with a wash of fondness, "when I fuck my— when I fuck girls, that's what I use. But Dean." He pauses, and waits for Dean to meet his eyes. "Dean. When I fuck you, I'm going to do it bare."

Dean jerks. "Jesus, Sam! You can't—" he stops, shakes himself. "I'm going to go for a walk. You— shower. Cool off. Teenage hormones have gotten the better of you."

Sam doesn't reply, and his eyes follow Dean as he grabs the key to the room. Dean keeps looking at Sam, then away. "Right. I'm going to go. You." Deep breath. "Bye."

Sometimes the only option is a strategic retreat.

oOo  
Sam is in bed when Dean gets back, and John is still out. On a hunt, Dean reminds himself, though lately that's been a catch-all term for whenever John  
wants to do whatever it is he does when he doesn't want to be around his only living family.

Dean strips, and crawls into bed beside Sammy. He's still jittery from their conversation, but if Sam's willing to drop it— well. Dean couldn't very well sleep outside with John scheduled to come home that night.

He lays in bed, staring at the water stains on the ceiling and listening to the soft sounds of the highway; anything to not focus on the even sound of Sam's breath and the heat coming off his naked back.

Dean jumps as Sam turns over on his side, facing Dean. Long habit has Dean mirroring the pose, so they're face to face. Sam's hair is mussed with sleep, and he's got pillow lines on his face; he's lost the baby fat that's all Dean can see, sometimes.

Sam breath hitches, and Dean jerks as he feels the touch of Sam's hand at the slit of his boxers, sliding inside slowly, to grip Dean's cock.

Dean's eyes flutter closed and he bites his lip, the moan rumbling out from his throat as his cock thickens and swells in Sam's hand.

"Yeah, Dean," Sam whispers, and leans in to brush his lips over Dean's in a shy, barely-there kiss.

Dean shivers, gives in. Slots their mouths together and ups the pressure and reaches out to touch Sam.

Sam's lips are dry; he tastes like skin and smells like home. Dean's attention is divided between sliding his hand into Sam's boxers to match Sam's grip, and he flicks his tongue out and it slides out from between them to taste the skin of Sam's upper lip. Sam laughs, and pulls back, lit up like a city Christmas tree with happiness, and Dean can't help but lean back in to kiss him again.

The Impala rumbles into the parking spot just outside their room, and Dean freezes, his hand inside the slit of Sam's boxers, shit, Sam's hand is _on his cock_ and— and shifts back and turns over on his other side facing John's bed and the door.

It's not a moment too soon. Keys rattle in the lock, seemingly for an age, and then John— stumbles in. Dean snaps his eyes closed in exasperation and relief to block out the site of his drunken father. Sam is completely still behind him; the only sounds in the room are the dull _thump_ of John's boots coming off and his too-loud steps as passes his sons on their bed on the way to the bathroom.

Dean opens his eyes and watches as John pushes it shut; the latch doesn't catch and the door falls eases open a crack, the light of the bathroom bright against the otherwise dark room.  
Behind him, Sam shifts and Dean jumps, then shudders, as Sam draws his boxers down to rest just below the line of his ass. The door to the bathroom is open; even drunk, John would hear it if Dean spoke.

He should move away. Pretend to wake up. Fuck, even just— pull his boxers back up.

But he doesn't. He waits, watching the light, until he twists back to look at his brother, who is waiting for him.

Sam smiles, and suddenly Sam's cock is sliding up the crease of Dean's ass. Dean turns back to face away, and bites his lip as Sam's cock rubs up and down the sensitive skin of his ass, large strokes that go from the top of Dean's ass to his taint. Sam just rubs himself on Dean for a few minutes.

John knocks over a bottle in the bathroom, curses, and Sam brings the head of his cock up to Dean's rim and holds it there; Dean feels almost feverish as the heat of Sam's body seems to burn into him from his hole. It's damp; Dean didn't shower, still has sweat in his joints, and Sam is leaking precome straight against his hole.

The shower turns on, the pipes groaning their protest. Sam pushes the head of his cock into Dean's ass.

"There," Sam whispers. "Just like this, fuck, Dean, you have no idea—"

Dean has some idea. His hole is burning, forced open too-wide with no prep, and even still it's the hottest thing Dean's ever felt. He feels ready to burst out of his skin, his eyes too dry as he holds back the urge to blink. John is less than ten feet away, the door isn't even _closed_, and Sam is

Sam is jerking his cock, his hand ramming against the meat of Dean's ass again and again. He's long enough to have the head of his cock in Dean's ass and can still jerk off, Dean's baby brother with his XL condoms and his apparent fetish for Dean's ass—

Dean's fully hard inside his boxers, leaking a steady stream of juice onto the inside. The force of Sam's hand is just enough to jerk him so his cock rubs up against the wet inside of his boxers, Sam's cock is _in him_, his too-large baby brother fucking Dean, edging just slightly deeper. It's the worst, sexiest thing Dean's ever imagined, let alone felt.

"Shit, _Dean_, you feel so," Sam gasps out, just slightly too loud, and wetness spreads out from inside of Dean, hot and slimy.

He snaps his eyes shut, the wet drop of a tear forced out to drip off his nose. He's still hard.

Sam pulls out, and his come follows the wet trail of his cock, sliding out of Dean toward the mattress. Dean can smell the thick tang of it on the air, familiar ground from years together.

"Love you," Sammy says, and risks curling up behind Dean's back as he presses his fingers between the cheeks of Dean's ass and pushes his come back into Dean, deeper than his cock had reached. Sam didn't even go that _deep_, and still feels raw, open and slick in a way that's frightening, because he wants _more_.

One finger turns into two, and Dean his lip so hard he breaks the skin. Sam's thumb catches a trail of his spunk and pushes it back in, curling his fingers inside Dean to make room, and Dean comes at the first brush of Sam's fingers on his prostate as the shower shuts off.

oOo

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